Where August is as longas the drawl and abouttwice as thick inThe Smokies,the French Broad,and on the Delta.

Where hearts are open,and minds are too.Where mouths take pridein what hands can do.

What does it take to Lovethis land?This people called 'trash'.

Why is it okay only tohate her?

The big and broad,skinny and long,missing toothed,big footedbare back blue eyed blonde?

With her frail features,warm heart, and pale hands,she consumes the shame and agencyof all who wash up onher newly swept door step.

She answers the doorin a night shirt afterit's far too late for visitors.And we come inside,and try to claim her.

To wash the indelible stainsout of her linens. Wetry to claim her first in ourhearts when we are alonestaring at a ceiling fan on ahot night with no AC,plagued by mosquitoesand a mysterious itch.

We want to claim her firstbefore Scottish, Irish, German,Anglo, or Cherokee Indian.

Are we too just as foreignto this land and just as despicableas this vine that binds us to her?

It's a hard thing to acknowledgethat this place now is what is,and is all that it is.It will never change, it willnever go quietly from our heartsand leave us in peace in this'better' place in which we havefound each other,to be neighbors yet again.

Yet here we are, voluntary refugeesfrom home in a better placewith culture.

Where you don't have to say gracebefore dinner,or go to Church on Sunday.

But for all this, we stillshare the mark of our lesser racein the freckles and moles thatare upon our face.

We come from a shamed,Un-visible place.And we will never call it by its name…